David Sutton - The Satyr's Head - Tales of Terror

‘So it was you those kids were shouting at,’ Lamson accused, as the tramp tottered out into the light. ‘Have you been following me?’ he asked. But there was no response, other than a slight twitching of the old man’s blistered lips into what he took to be a smile, though one that was distinctively malignant and sly. ‘You were following me last night, weren’t you?’ Lamson went on. ‘I heard you when you slipped, so there’s no point denying it. And I saw you this morning when those kids were having a go at you. I thought they were being cruel when they shouted out at you, but I don’ t know now. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps you are a dirty old man, a dirty, insidious and evil old man.’ Even now there was no more response from the tramp than that same repugnant smile. ‘Haven’t you got a tongue?’ Lamson snapped. ‘Grinning there like a Gargoyle. Well? You were talkative enough when we met on the moors. Have you taken vows of silence since then? Come on! Speak up, damn you!’ He clenched his fists, fighting back the impulse to hit him in the face, even though it was almost too strong to resist. What an ugly old creature he was, what with his pockmarked face all rubbery and grey and wet, and those bloated, repulsive lips. Was he some kind of half-breed? he wondered, though of what mixture he could not imagine. A thin, grey trickle of saliva hung down from a corner of his mouth. There was a streak of blood in it. As he stared at him he realized that he looked far worse, far, far worse than before, as if whatever disease had already swollen and eroded his features had suddenly accelerated its effect.

The tramp stared down at the stone in Lamson’ s hand.

‘Were you after gettin’ rid of it? Is that why you’ve come to this place?’ he asked finally.

‘Since it’s mine, I have every right to, if that’s what I want to do,’ Lamson said, taken aback at the accusation.

‘An’ why should you choose to do such a thing, I wonder? You liked it enough when I first showed it to you on the bus. Couldn’t ’ardly wait to buy it off o’ me then, could you? ’Ere’s the money, give us the stone, quick as a flash! Couldn’t ’ardly wait, you couldn’t. An’ ere you are, all ’et up an’ nervous, can’t ’ardly wait to get rid o’ the thing. What’s the poor sod been doin’ to you? Givin’ you nightmares, ’as it?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What should I mean? Just a joke. That’s all. Can’t you tell? Ha, ha, ha!’ He spat a string of phlegm on the ground. ‘Only a joke,’ he went on, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

‘Only a joke, was it?’ Lamson asked, his anger inflamed with indignation at the old man’s ill-concealed contempt for him. ‘And I suppose it was only a joke when you followed me here as well? Or did you have some other purpose in mind? Did you?’

‘P’raps I was only tryin’ to make sure you came to no ’arm. Wouldn’t want no ’arm to come to you now, would I? After all, you bought that ’ead off o’ me fair an’ square, didn’t you? Though it does seem an awful shame to me to toss it into the canal there. Awful shame it’d be. Where’d you get another bit o’ stone like that? It’s unique, you know, that’s what it is right enough. Unique. Wouldn’t want to throw it into no canal, would you? Where’s the sense in it? Or the use? Could understand if there was somethin’ bad an’ nasty about it. Somethin’ unpleasant, like. But what’s bad an’ nasty about that? Don’t give you no nightmares, now, does it? Nothin’ like that? Course not! Little bit o’ stone like that? An’ yet, ’ere you are, all ’et up an’ ready to toss it away, an’ no reason to it. I can’t understand it at all. I can’t. I swear it.’ He shook his head reproachfully, though there was a cunning grin about his misshapen mouth, as if laughing at a secret joke. ‘Throwin’ it away,’ he went on in the same infuriatingly mocking voice, ‘Ne’er would ha’ thought o’ doin’ such a thing— old bit o’ stone like that. You know ’ow much it might be worth? Can you even guess? Course not! An’ yet you get it for next to nothin’ off o’ me, only keep it for a day or so, then the next thing I knows, ’ere you are all ready to toss it like an empty can into the canal. An’ that’s what you’ve come ’ere for, isn’t it?’

‘And if it is, why are you here?’ Lamson asked angrily. The old man knew too much — far, far too much. It wasn’t natural! ‘What are you?’ he asked. ‘And why have you been spying on me? Come on, give me an answer!’

‘An answer, is it? Well, p’raps I will. It’s too late now, I can tell, for me to do any ‘arm in lettin’ you know. ’E’s ’ad ’is ’ands on you by now, no doubt, Eh?’

Lamson felt a stirring in his loins as he remembered the dream he had woken from barely two hours ago. But the old man couldn’t mean that. It was impossible for him to know about it, utterly, completely, irrefutably impossible! Lamson tried to make himself leave, but he couldn’t, not until he had heard what the old man had to say, even though he knew that he didn’t want to listen. He had no choice. He couldn’t. ‘Are you going to answer my questions?’ he asked, his voice sounding far more firm than he felt.

The tramp leered disgustedly.

‘’Aven’t ’ad enough, ’ave you? Want to ’ear about it as well?’

‘As well as what?’

The tramp laughed. ‘You know. Though you pretend that you don’t, you know all right. You know.’ He wiped one watering, red-rimmed eye. ‘I ’spect you’ll please ’im a might bit better ’n’ me. For a while, at least. I wasn’t much for ’im, even at the first. Too old. Too sick. Even then I was too sick. Sicker now, though, o’ course. But that’s ’ow it is. That’s ’ow it’s got to be, I s’ppose. ’E wears you out. That ’e does. Wears you out. But you, now, you, you’re as young as ’e could ask for. An’ fit. Should last a while. A long, long while, I think, before ’e wears you out. Careful! Wouldn’t want to drop ’im now, would you?’

It seemed as if something cold and clammy was clenching itself like some tumorous hand inside him. With a shudder of revulsion, Lamson looked down at the stone in his hand. Was he mistaken or was there a look of satisfaction on its damnable face? He stared at it hard, feeling himself give way to a nauseating fear that drained his limbs of their strength.

‘I thought you were o’ the right sort for ’im when I saw you on that lane,’ the tramp said. ‘I’m ne’er wrong ’bout things like that.’

As if from a great distance Lamson heard himself ask what he meant.

‘Right sort? What the fucking hell do you mean: the right sort?’

‘Should ha’ thought you’d know,’ he replied, touching him on the hand with his withered fingers.

Lamson jerked his hand away.

‘You dirty old sod!’ he snapped, fear and disgust adding tension to his voice. ‘You — you…’ He did not want to face the things hinted at. He didn’t! They were lies, all lies, nothing but lies! With a sudden cry of half hearted annoyance, both at the tramp and at himself for his weakness, he pushed past and ran back along the towpath. He ran as the rain began to fall with more force and the sky darkened overhead. He ran as the city began to come to life and church bells tolled their beckoning chimes for the first services of the day.

‘I can’t understand you,’ Sutcliffe said as he collected a couple of pints from the bar and brought them back to their table by the door. ‘Excuse me,’ he added, as he pushed his chair between a pair of outstretched legs from the next table. ‘Right. Thanks.’

Loosening his scarf, he sat down with a shake of his tousled head.

‘Like the Black Hole of Calcutta in here,’ he said. He took a sip of his pint, watching Lamson as he did so. His friend’s face looked so pale and lifeless these days, its unhealthiness emphasized by the dark sores that had erupted about his mouth.